She dug through the suitcase she called a purse and found her cell to call Jake. He picked up right away.
"Hey Honey! How'd it go?"
"Well, big man, I might just survive without you, I scored a pledge for fifty thousand dollars!" she exclaimed, taking her time to enunciate the last bit for dramatic effect.
"Get outta here! It must have been my handsome face in the Courier article. Was he gay?"
"No, he wasn't gay, you egotist. He spent most of the time picking over his lunch and looking at his phone, she's the one who offered us the check. Can you believe it? What if they don't come through? What kind of a follow up should we do?"
"We'll send them a hand-written note as soon as I get home tomorrow. I'll see you around noon. That's so exciting, Honey. I'm thrilled to the moon for you!"
"Thanks, Jake. I'm trying to be upbeat about it, but you know- " she trailed off, she didn't have to explain.
Jake understood how difficult it was for her to stay focused on the positive.
"Hey, this is a big deal. You did good, Rachel. Go home and celebrate it, we'll start planning tomorrow. This is exciting! We're going to have the best time! Kenneth might even tell you he's proud of you!"
"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow, drive safely," she cautioned, already imagining him having some horrible accident before he made it home. She'd have to call Mark and give him the news. She wondered how she would manage without him.
"Rachel!" Jake yelled, reading her mind like her husband never could, "This is awesome, you're making it happen! Get home and pour a glass of wine. I'll see you tomorrow."
They hung up and she turned the ringer off on her phone, needing the rest of the drive to process everything that happened that morning before she returned to the house of immortal chaos.
Would Kenneth show the same kind of excitement for her that Jake had? Maybe he would give her a hug and tell her he was proud of her, they’d take the kids out somewhere nice for dinner and have wild all-night make-up sex. After she’d shaved her legs and had enough to drink.
Rachel tried to pretend she'd never seen Dylan that morning, shoving the image of him reaching for her elbow far into the back of her brain. She was a master at pushing away the things she didn't want to think about, she'd learned even as a young girl to close the curtain until she was ready to deal with anything particularly troubling.
Growing up she’d escaped into her books about young love, or she’d sit in her attic studio and paint the days away, she took Icarus through the practice course at Miller’s. She'd loved Dylan. He'd been her greatest escape.
Later she escaped into marriage and work and her kids, helping somebody in crisis, researching some new grant opportunity.
But she'd never been able to stop the dreams, and it was only a matter of time before her mind insisted she stop compartmentalizing. In those brief periods between when she'd lie down, her mind racing, and when she'd bolt awake, aware of all around her, she'd often find the crypt in her mind pushing things towards the surface that she'd rather not remember.
***
They'd already walked the course that morning, and Rachel stood brushing Icarus in the stable. It was just weeks before high school started, a Saturday, and she waited nervously for her name to be called. She'd been show jumping in tournaments since she was only four, but Icarus was her first thoroughbred and she was jittery about their inaugural performance. She stood nervously with him in the stable, watching other contestants walk to the entrance as they were called to the course.
"Hey."
It was a skinny boy with light hair and dark skin sitting under the gable, his long legs dangling from the wooden gate that led into the arena. He wore dirty khakis and a blue t-shirt with large white letters that read SWIM across the chest. His tennis shoes were covered in dirt, but he smiled at her brightly, unconcerned with his appearance.
"Hello," she said through her nose in her mother's elitist voice, a skill she'd picked up at an early age. It kept people from thinking she wanted to talk to them, easier to have been perceived as snotty than strange.
She turned back to Icarus and continued brushing, her hand moving in long strokes against the sorrel’s shiny auburn hair.
"What are you doing that for?" he asked, jumping off the gate and walking towards her, "Aren't you about to take him out there anyway?"
"I'm grooming him before we go out. It calms his nerves."
"What's he nervous about?"
"He's not nervous," she said defensively, "I just mean - it's his first time out. Don't you know anything about horses? What are you doing in here anyway? I've never seen you around before."
"I'm here with my mom," he said, nodding his head towards a woman across the dirt lane, "We delivered flowers this morning for some of the obstacles. She's over there making the wreath for the winner."
She wore a flowing yellow skirt and a white poet's blouse, picking leaves from stemmed flowers in a white box, her hair long and straight down her back. Her skin and eyes were dark, exotic. She reminded Rachel of a gypsy she'd seen in an old movie her father always watched on cable.
Rachel looked up hesitantly at the boy again, he was taller than her. She'd always been taller than most of the boys her age, something that only worsened her feelings of awkwardness. He smiled at her then, his eyes were almost purple, she’d never seen anything like it. Self-consciousness overwhelmed her and she tried not to stare, looking back instead towards the woman in the yellow skirt.
"That's your mom?" she asked skeptically, "You don't look like her."
"She's Native."
"Native what?"
"Native American," he laughed, "You know, like an Indian?"
"Oh," she muttered, embarrassed, and turned back to her horse, "Shouldn't you go help her?"
"I'd rather talk to you. She'll call me if she needs any help. She only wanted me to come help her carry in the heavy stuff anyway. I've been sitting around here for an hour."
Rachel looked at her hands as she brushed her horse. Boys never talked to her, they mostly ignored her or if they did talk to her it was to tease her about her wardrobe and how her parents never let her wear anything trendy or revealing like other girls her age, or to laugh that she'd never been able to see Dirty Dancing or go out with them to the mall.
Of course, none of them had a father in his sixties either. Frank was old enough to be her grandfather twice over, and his insisting on her keeping the values he'd brought with him from the 1940's only served to make her more of an outsider.
"What's your name?"
"Rachel."
"I'm Dylan. We just moved here from Louisiana, my dad said the schools are better here. My mom bought the nursery on the Orange Highway. How old are you?"
"Fourteen."
"Me, too. Are you starting high school this year?"
"Yes," she said, sounding more annoyed than she felt, "You sure do ask a lot of questions, Dylan from Louisiana."
"Yeah, well that's how you make friends, right?" It was more of a declaration than a question. He ran his hand over Icarus' hind leg, smoothing the hair over the hard muscle, "I've never pet a horse before."
"Fancy that," she snickered, "I thought Indians loved horses."
"Fancy that, smartass, I'm only part Indian and the other part is more interested in swimming and watching movies than hanging out in petting zoos."
"Rachel Beauchamp!" her mother yelled from down the lane, "You're almost up, get moving!"
She'd flinched visibly at Savannah's voice and Icarus reared back, sensing her anxiety.
"Whoa, boy," she whispered, stroking his mane to calm him, "shhhhh-"
She slid on her tight black riding jacket, pulled her long curls from under the coat, and reached for her helmet and riding crop. She risked a look at Dylan, then grabbed the reins and began the slow walk to the beginning of the course. Dylan walked with her, his hands dug deep in his pockets. They neared where his mother stood organizing the flowers and she looked up, smiling. Rachel
had seen the resemblance then, they had the same smile. But other than the smile, and the amber skin, she'd have never known he was her son.
"Hey baby," his mother said, "Who's this?"
"Her name's Rachel."
"Hello Rachel."
"Hello."
"Good luck, maybe we'll see you afterwards, huh?" she asked before going back to her project.
They continued their walk towards the gate, Rachel's face felt hot. She'd always been shy, but it was different now, an unfamiliar kind of nervousness. He was so good looking, she hadn't wanted to stare. And he was friendly, but she was unsure of herself and it never took long for people to think she was weird. She didn’t want him to think she liked him, it felt safer to be mean.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" she asked snarkily.
"Easy tiger,” he laughed, “Anything better than trying to be nice to a pretty girl who just wants to be mean to me? No, not really."
A pretty girl. Her chest filled with excitement, a strange feeling took over her gut. He was nothing like the boys she'd grown up with, not pretentious, he hadn't tried to impress her or make her feel bad. He'd just talked to her. And he'd said she was pretty. She tried to think of something friendly to say, but her nerves held her back and she walked in silence until he spoke again.
"Are you excited about school?"
"Ummm, kinda," she lied, she'd been terrified of going back to school and living through the angst and horror of another school year with people who thought she was dark and creepy, "Are you excited?"
"I don't know anybody yet. But yeah, I'm excited. High school is supposed to be awesome, don't you think it will be?"
"I guess? I heard they're super mean to the freshman at first. Last year they said the seniors made the freshman girls eat shaving cream during lunch."
He smiled at her disbelieving, "No way, are you sure that's not just something you saw in a movie?"
"No, I swear, my friend Sarah's sister told us."
"Maybe she was just trying to freak you out. You act tough enough, I doubt anybody will mess with you."
"You think I'm tough?" she asked, surprised.
"No," he laughed, "I said you act tough. You're probably just a pussycat."
"That's a dumb thing to say."
He was making fun of her. She slowed to a stop as they neared the entry gate, and Icarus became increasingly excited when another horse exited the arena.
She ran her hand down his mane and whispered, "Shhhhh, boy, shhhhh- almost our turn."
"See?" Dylan asked, walking backwards to leave her, hands still in his pockets, his smile filling her stomach with butterflies.
"See what?"
"You're all pussycat. Good luck, Rachel. See you at school!"
***
He'd watched her mindfully as she brushed her horse, soothing him and whispering to him. When he finally got up the nerve to talk to her, she'd been short, like he was annoying her.
But he couldn't stop talking to her, he needed to be close to her. She smelled amazing, and he wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked and what it would feel like against his own. Her face blushed pink when he'd talked to her, her eyes shing like emeralds under her dark, long lashes. She was so natural looking, she hadn't worn all of the makeup a lot of girls their age wore. Dylan thought a lot of girls were pretty, but Rachel was different. She was more than different, she was- sophisticated, and peculiar, captivating.
After they’d said goodbye, he watched near the fence as she prepared to start the course. She mounted the large red horse like she was performing in the ballet, the sleek black outfit and black leather boots were ebony against her alabaster skin. She’d worn a tiny gold pin on the lapel of her jacket, a horseshoe with a flower inside, the petals made with diamonds. Her long brown hair came down in waves around her shoulders, and she’d reached up with her tightly gloved hands to tuck it neatly into her helmet before kicking her horse into a trot.
She owned the course, rounding the turns with precision, then picking up speed and bringing her horse over each obstacle with ease, no hesitation, like they'd known what each other was thinking. She'd seemed so fragile and lonely standing in the stable earlier, but watching her then, she’d been strong and talented, confident and beautiful.
He hadn't wanted to leave, he'd wanted to stay and talk to her again, but his mother was ready to go and he had to beg to watch Rachel finish the course. He held his breath when she approached each obstacle, arrogance on her face and in how she handled her horse.
For weeks afterward Dylan felt his stomach turn and his face grow hot whenever he thought of her. He wondered if she'd looked for him when she finished, if she'd thought of him afterward like he'd thought of her.
Then he walked into class on the first day of school, and there she’d been again. He hadn't even slowed to consider her reaction, or what other people may have thought, there'd been none of the bumbling adolescent weirdness that any normal kid his age should have felt over talking to a girl. He hadn't even worried that she'd be rude to him again. He just needed to be close to her. And when he took the seat next to hers, she blushed before he even opened his mouth to say hello.
"Hey, it's the pussycat," he smiled, his stomach filling with butterflies, and when she finally smiled back, Dylan swore he felt the world around him shift in a crazy mystical way.
She’d changed him then in some small imperceivable way, she’d become a piece of him then, a wedge in his life he could never unburden.
CHAPTER FIVE
The article hadn’t been out a week, and she’d already covered the expenses for the gala and then some, so despite spending almost every waking moment reliving the two run-ins she’d had with Dylan over the last six days, Rachel felt pretty good. She was behind her desk early the morning after she'd met with Nancy and Edward, eager to start planning how to spend all that money. Lauren sat on the couch flipping through her books, asking her occasionally if she preferred Cinderella to Sleeping Beauty, or Ariel to Jasmine.
There were fifteen tabs pulled up on her internet browser, but she needed Jake to get in so they could argue over floral arrangements and whether to bring in a swing band or the string quartet they'd used last year. Rachel was in the mood to do something more upbeat, but Jake was unpredictable. They had six nice restaurants lined up to donate food in exchange for the free publicity and tax write-offs, she wanted six more. The invitations had to be printed and mailed out within a few days, she was already too far behind. Rachel’s excitement faded as she skimmed over the list of things they had left to do.
She shut her laptop. She'd been so anxious since the game, and she hadn't spent any real quality time with either of her kids in weeks, which was why she'd brought Lauren into the office with her that morning. Rachel looked over at her now and thought how she'd always sworn never to let work take priority over her kids.
"Hey! Monkey love! Wanna go get our toenails painted?"
Lauren perked up, "Let me find my flower purse! I'm getting hot pink, Mommy, what are you getting?"
"I'm thinking- hot pink!"
She squealed in delight and ran out to find her little purse.
***
What a terrible idea.
The nail salon was filled with people they knew, a few ladies who played tennis with her mother, one of Sarah's bitch friends whose son played football with Caleb, and Richard Crane's wife, the one who'd seen her race out of their store the day before, probably telling her husband they shouldn't fill her prescriptions anymore.
But there was no getting around it, Lauren was too excited and they'd made it through the front door, they were committed. Rachel put on her game face and exchanged pleasantries with those who looked up from their cell phones and magazines to offer, "Hey Rachel," and "Look how pretty that baby is, I love her hair, did you perm it?"
She choked back disgust, wishing she had the courage to snicker out loud.
No, I didn't perm my toddler's hair, you idiot.
&n
bsp; "No, Ms. Liddy, Lauren came out with those curls, aren't they sweet?"
She'd been conditioned since birth to play nicely with these hags, but it wasn't just that. She needed to be friendly so she could hit them up for donations. Her mother's friends never failed to try and outdo one another at the gala every year.
“Anything for the less fortunate,” they’d condescend.
The reigning Queens of Mean had excused Rachel’s social ineptitude twenty years ago, but they'd alienate her in a heartbeat if she were deliberately rude to them, and then Savannah would never let her hear the end of it.
She picked over the nail polish to find the right shade, something suited for fall. Lauren was already pushing her hot pink selection towards the tiny woman who'd started to fill the pedicure tub designed especially for little girls.
"So, Rachel, how's Kenneth?” Regina Carlisle asked, “I heard that boy from Ellis isn't going to make it, they say he's on life support and his momma won't let them turn it off."
Regina was on the Board of Directors for ReachingOut, and unlike the rest of Savannah’s friends who’d turned bitchiness into a fine art, she’d never developed a taste for the rules of their game. Savannah made a whole slew of new girlfriends after she’d married Jameson, and Regina was the only one who never cared to sugarcoat her insults or say something she didn’t mean.
And she never took long to get around to business. When her mother had given Rachel the money to start ReachingOut, Regina was the first to jump on board to help. Rachel always liked her. Savannah and her friends liked Regina, too, but Rachel suspected they liked her husband’s money more.
"Well, Ms. Regina, Kenneth is okay, but I really don't know anything about the boy. You've probably heard more than we have. I think Kenneth is just trying to adjust, it's never easy, especially when it’s a kid. I’m sure he's just eager to put it behind him."
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